Gustavo Dudamel has been controversial of late. He has long been a star, and rightly so, thanks to his association with the tremendous impact made by the Simón Bólivar Youth Orchestra from his native Venezuela. Yet away from the Bólivars, things have been more equivocal. Responses to his performances with the Gothenburg Symphony – he is their principal conductor until 2012 – have been, on occasion, muted. And once the so-called "Dudamania" over his musical directorship of the Los Angeles Philharmonic died down, questions began to be asked in the US both about his musicianship and if any conductor, even of the highest calibre, could live up to the hype surrounding him.

The LAP, however, have now signed up as Barbican international associates, so we are going to have plenty of opportunity to assess Dudamel's ongoing relationship with them and his development as an interpreter. And on this showing, the auspices are good, by and large making those dissenting voices seem querulous and tetchy. The opening concert, attended by luminaries from the arts world including culture secretary Jeremy Hunt, was an almost self-consciously grand occasion.

Its programme consisted of three works – Adams's Slonimsky's Earbox, Bernstein's First Symphony and Beethoven's Seventh – that are rooted in tense rhythmic complexities and dynamic extremes. This is the sort of thing Dudamel has always done well.

Slonimsky's Earbox peers back towards minimalism's roots in Stravinsky with the result that some of it sounds too like Petrushka for its own good. But it showcases the LAP's dexterity and precision, and nicely emphasises their sound's innate glamour – warmer than some US orchestras, albeit with a slight glare in the brass. Bernstein's First, meanwhile, subtitled "Jeremiah" and written in 1942, is a dark meditation on Jewish spirituality at a time of threat. The gaunt, thudding opening soon headed implacably towards climaxes that oppressed through sheer force of decibels. Dudamel centred the work, however, in its scherzo, with its collisions between mockery and violence. Kelley O'Connor, tall and hieratic, was the alto soloist, intoning the final lament with sepulchral beauty, if occasional unsteadiness.

But the Beethoven was electrifying. Dudamel used almost unfashionably large forces by UK standards, but controlled them superbly throughout. Textural complexity was balanced by tremendous grace of phrasing and the instrumental solos were often exquisitely played. The slow movement, opening in a mood of profound sadness, gradually acquired a relentless momentum as it progressed that took it into troubling, curiously disconsolate emotional territory. Some might have preferred more differentiation between the contrasting speeds of the scherzo and trio, and Dudamel took the finale so swiftly that occasional details vanished in the exaltation of it all. It was impossible not to be swept away. That visceral quality that made him so famous with the Bólivars was present in his Beethoven in spades.